


To Breathe in Unison

by feathershollyandgolly



Series: SecretlyMagneto's Cherikweek 2020 [7]
Category: X-Men (Alternate Timeline Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Royalty, Alternative Universe - Kingdom, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Vignette, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-12
Updated: 2020-06-12
Packaged: 2021-03-04 01:34:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24675436
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/feathershollyandgolly/pseuds/feathershollyandgolly
Summary: King Charles Francis Xavier III steps through the doors of the throne room. Erik had assumed negotiations would be easy, but the vivid blue eyes staring right back at him say anything but.
Relationships: Erik Lehnsherr/Charles Xavier
Series: SecretlyMagneto's Cherikweek 2020 [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1769218
Comments: 14
Kudos: 63
Collections: Cherik Week 2020





	To Breathe in Unison

**Author's Note:**

> asklfjl thank you hllfire for the encouragement on this fic !!!!!!! If there was no hype around this au idk if I would have had the motivation to finish it because it's so complicated aaaaaa
> 
> For Cherikweek day 7, which was a free day.

Genosha has not had a political guest in over a decade. 

Erik, once prince and now king, remembers all too well the struggles of foreign politics. The tensions and possibilities that come from diplomats that turn into traitors. At this point, however, he also knows what is needed. 

King Charles Francis Xavier III steps through the doors of the throne room. Erik had assumed negotiations would be easy, but the vivid blue eyes staring right back at him say anything but.

“Your majesty,” addresses Charles, tapping the staff in his left hand against the stone floor. “I received your letter. I understand that you wished to speak to me about the coming war?”

“Indeed,” says Erik, remaining seated. “Shaw’s forces have almost taken Worthington’s kingdom.”

“They already have,” says Charles grimly.

“We fight a foe that seemingly becomes stronger with every battle. Shaw respects no treaty and does not listen to reason.”

“I fear what is to happen to our own kingdoms when Shaw arrives,” Charles murmurs in agreement. He frowns, the lines on his brow growing deeper. “What do you propose we do?”

“The only thing we can do,” says Erik. “We fight back.”

Erik glances out the high windows at the sky. He pauses. Perhaps it is best to show the Westchesterian king. 

“Walk with me.” Erik stands, gesturing at Charles to follow as he makes his way across the room.

“Where are we going?” 

“Just outside.”

Tentatively, Charles comes to his side as Erik opens the door to the courtyard. They step out together.

Under the afternoon sunlight, the world stills despite the threat of impending war. Orange blossoms flourish at this time of year. Erik is silent, breathing in the sweet air. A breeze blows by. Petals scatter.

“The flora here is fascinating,” says Charles. “I don’t believe we have orange trees in Westchester.”

He sighs, staring at the tangle of branches above. He seems lost in thought.

“Genosha is a small nation,” Charles continues. “Capable, but without the numbers. The geographic advantage. If Shaw was to attack Westchester or cross the sea, you would be at a disadvantage, my friend.”

“So you understand,” says Erik, deciding to ignore the unprofessional endearment.

“I do,” muses Charles. “You want my help.”

“If we fight Shaw together, we may stand a chance,” Erik says, walking to stand next to him and watch the same flower as it waves in the wind. “I want an ally.”

Charles turns to look at him. Erik looks back. Even closer now, he notices how searing that glare is. Not angry, but restless and clever like the sea. 

“You understand our nations haven’t spoken in years,” says Charles, gripping his staff.

“Genosha is not a nation that trusts easily,” replies Erik. “But we do what we must.”

Instead of seeming pleased with the idea, Charles’ expression only drops further, as though he is disappointed. Erik wonders what he would have wanted to hear. A flower falls from a close branch and Charles catches it midair, twirling it between his fingers. 

“My people are peaceful. Westchester has always preferred diplomacy,” says Charles. 

“You could join Shaw willingly.”

“I could,” considers Charles. He turns to him with a hint of a smile. “But I won’t.”

“No?”

To Erik’s surprise, Charles lets out a bemused huff of a laugh. “Do you think I’m so foolish as to trust my kingdom in the hands of a tyrant?”

“It wasn’t my intention to insult you,” Erik amends. 

“You assume the worse, my friend,” says Charles. “I wish you didn’t.”

“We hardly know each other,” replies Erik.

“But it’s settled that we shall.” Charles holds out his right hand. “Westchester welcomes an alliance with Genosha, should the occasion of war arrive.”

Erik tentatively reaches out. It’s the opportunity he was looking for but it is not. It’s wrong, how open the king of Westchester is. How easily he smiles. Yet, it is not ulterior; only disconcerting. Erik shakes himself. His personal feelings on the matter are unimportant.

“Of course,” says Erik.

Their hands clasp. Charles has a strong grip. Warm hands. They let go.

“Shall we go inside?” asks Charles, breaking the silence. “I’m sure you would like something more substantial than a handshake.”

“Indeed,” Erik murmurs, still staring at his hand. 

Sitting in his palm is the flattened orange blossom, still intact, that Charles was holding earlier. Erik pockets it. He does not know why.

-

The outskirts of Westchester burn. Erik and Charles sail north with their forces, imagining the rising flames lick at the stars. Charles had sent reinforcements with no way of tracking their success. Watching as Westchester’s coastline fades into the night is likely only more disquieting. 

Erik stands at the bow overlooking parting waves. He watches for Old Genosha. Any sign of what his nation once was before the coup. Before Shaw. 

Charles’ gaze at the last of Westchester is all too familiar.

-

Summer takes a harsh dive into winter without regard for autumn. Months have passed to the point where Shaw’s army and the Westchester-Genoshan forces reach an impasse. 

After confrontations in between spindly trees, the enemy had retreated across a plain that became no-man’s land. An empty expanse that, as the night awakens, begins to fill with snow. If a soldier ventures out of the trees too far, they would surely be shot by the forces beyond the hills.

Erik studies the land, hidden from view yet outside the cover of the forest. He has not seen snowfall in years. 

Slowly, he lifts his gaze until he only sees rolling grey clouds. He takes in a sky of bone and ash and wishes his most vivid memory was not smoke of the very same color, bitter on his tongue. The snow sticks to his skin, melting against warmth. 

Someone approaches. The familiar sound of a staff hitting earth follows each step.

“We should not go this route,” Charles murmurs, now by Erik’s side. “Shaw will see us from miles away.”

“It is long before dawn, and we’re lighter on our feet. We’ll stay concealed,” Erik replies, never tearing his eyes away from the horizon.

“If we go now, it will be a bloodbath,” says Charles. “That cost is heavier than your catharsis.”

Erik turns to Charles, sharply. “Don’t pretend to know me.”

Charles only laughs—a strange thing to hear on the battlefield, but a common thing to hear from Charles. It resounds like a song.

“Then don’t look at me like that,” he says.

“I’m not,” Erik snaps. “I’m hardly looking at you at all.”

But Erik has already turned to face Charles, trying not to stare at his flushed face or the way his breath condenses in the fog. The crisp air stings at their skin. Erik shakes his head and averts his gaze.

“I suggest taking the woods,” Charles says, stepping away. 

“It will slow our progress by days,” Erik protests.

“Death will do the same thing, my friend.”

Erik glances back to see Charles walking towards the edge of the forest, gazing at the jagged spines of trees. The forest is a good cover, but it does not go northward for miles. It would be a detour. Even so, Erik knows Charles is right.

“I think it would be best if we stayed alive,” Charles calls. “You?”

And with that Charles disappears into the darkness, moving back to where the rest of the men are camped for the night while Erik stands alone. 

-

Erik was trained from childhood to fight by the same hand that ultimately strangled the spirit of Genosha. By the very right hand that no one realized could hold so much cruelty. No one but Erik.

Sebastian Shaw was trusted by the king and queen until there was a sword at their throats.

Erik knew that there were whispers behind closed doors. Shaking hands with foreign powers and using words Erik could hardly reveal to his parents without sounding absurd. The diplomatic council would break for lunch and suddenly the dance began.

Conspirators. Stepping in time, weaving through the crowd to find the visiting leader and have a little chat. A web of alliances impossible to untangle over the merry chatter of the council.

When Erik was a boy, Genosha was coming undone right before his very eyes. And all the while, the traitorous voice told him to strike. Parry. Drive a blade through bone. 

These days, Erik reminds himself to use that training once the time comes.

-

Erik has never seen Charles kill a man up close. Not until now.

Charles, with staff still in one hand and sword in the other, slashes at throats and heels. He knows how to slow an enemy just as he knows how to end one quickly. And they fall with the mercy of a swift death.

That night, back at the tents, Erik offers to help bandage his wounds.

“You can’t lead your people if you pick up an infection,” Charles deflects, pointing at the gash in Erik’s arm and completely disregarding his own. 

Erik is forced to sit on a cot while Charles settles next to him and looks over the wound. Erik wonders. He wonders about Charles, who walks unbalanced and speaks with wisdom far preceding his age. From the beginning, Charles, with all of his wide smiles, seemed to come from a place of naivety. 

Now, Erik realizes, it’s a place of experience. War leaves no time for joy unless it is made.

“You’re still bleeding,” notes Charles.

Erik mutters something indignant but allows Charles to lift his arm for a better view of the wound. 

“Shouldn’t you call a medic?” Erik asks.

“I’m trained enough in bandaging wounds,” says Charles. “Now for god’s sake, hold still.”

Charles grasps with more firmness than Erik had expected, now only inches away. He narrows his eyes in concentration. Despite the cold, he radiates a steady warmth. 

“You’re lucky this didn’t tear any deeper,” Charles mutters, his gaze meeting Erik’s. 

Erik stares back, transfixed at how close they are. Almost chest to chest, noses near brushing against one another. Charles has a hand on Erik’s knee. His hair is wild from running against the wind, tangling and falling into his face.

There is a patch of blood on his cheek.

Without thinking, Erik wipes at the stain with a stroke of his thumb. Charles inhales sharply as the gentle touch lingers. 

He does not pull away.

-

Winter grows unbearable. Food is not quite scarce, but the lacking supplies in addition to biting winds sink morale. Soldiers cluster for spare heat until they are practically living on top of one another. Sharing beds and blankets for the sake of staying alive. 

In spite of offers from Erik’s inner circle, they are all met with rejection. It is simply a matter of space, which he has rarely had since childhood with overprotective advisors surrounding him.

He wants someone who won’t smother him. Out of the corner of his eye, he finds what he is looking for. He wonders if Westchester has rules about loving a man like this. There are none in Genosha. The only way to know is to ask.

Charles sits huddled by a small fire, eating his ration quietly. Erik, without hesitation, walks to him and sits by his side.

“What? No queen to keep you?” Charles asks after Erik makes his offer.

“No,” Erik replies.

Charles stares at him, inquisitively. 

“I was betrothed the same year Shaw attacked,” Erik continues. “I’m sure you can figure out the rest.”

“Oh,” says Charles, expression falling. “I’m so sorry, my friend.”

Erik shrugs. “It’s alright. You were curious.”

Charles pauses, collecting himself with an awkward cough.

“I don’t have a betrothed either. My closest heir is my sister,” he says “Commander Raven Darkholme, who’s leading the army at Westchester’s border.”

“You were never arranged to be married to anyone?”

“No.” Charles smiles ruefully. “Traditionally I’d have been married for at least a decade by now, but no one takes a second glance at a man who can’t walk properly.”

“Their loss,” Erik mutters to himself.

Charles barks out a startled laugh. Erik’s face flushes red after realizing his words were heard. 

“At least you gain something out of their poor taste,” says Charles. “I’ll consider your offer, my friend.”

The look he sends Erik says that the answer is already there. 

-

That night, Erik lays curled against Charles under numerous blankets and furs. Pressed so close, he can feel Charles down to the ridge of his spine. Can feel his chest rising and falling gently with each breath. After weeks of the bitter chill slipping in, the comfort is welcome.

Charles shifts until they face one another. The radiating warmth embraces them further. 

“Charles?” asks Erik. Distantly, he notes that his heart is pounding.

Charles peers back, gaze soft. With a quiet hum, he says: “See you tomorrow.”

And he smiles, not his usual energized grin, but a lazy, sweet quirk of the lips. 

“See you,” says Erik, who feels as though his tongue is stuck to the roof of his mouth.

He tries his best to smile back, though he’s never been quite good at it. He stares as Charles twines their fingers together. Palms brushing as though they belong there. 

Each night after is the same.

-

The old capital is still miles from Shaw’s central base. Dismissed as the relic of a kingdom conquered; as rubble that was once Genosha’s pride and joy. Carved monuments of stone loom silent, absent of what once were bustling inhabitants.

It is undignified for a leader— a _king,_ no less— yet Erik falls to his knees, sinking into the snow. The chill below is nothing compared to the burning sting of tears threatening to fall. 

“This was the center of Genosha,” Erik whispers, a sob rising at his throat. “This was my home.”

He pretends to not notice the crumbled wall. The way it reveals the courtyard he remembers racing through. Tripping on flowerbeds, the crisp autumn wind tugging at his hair. His parents, watching from afar. Sunlight. The sky has been nothing but dark for months, but he remembers sunlight.

“It is not lost,” insists a voice behind him. “It won’t be.”

There is a hand on his shoulder. Someone crouching down to Erik’s level. Charles.

“How can you be sure?” Erik asks.

He turns to Charles, searching for something indescribable in those bright blue eyes. Charles is one of the few reminders left of the world free from clouded desolation. An equal familiar in a way Erik has been familiar with no one.

“Because you are not alone,” says Charles. The smile he sends is too kind. 

Erik nods, face numb, and slowly stands again. 

-

The night feels as though it lasts a century. As darkness encroaches, the silhouette of the castle ruins only becomes sharper. Mistrals whistle through crags that once resisted the winter air. Taking shelter behind the walls was a small comfort, but even the younger Genoshan soldiers knew what had befallen there. 

Erik paces, restlessness pulling him through the dilapidated halls in search of something he can’t quite place. History. Memories already fading from his mind.

“Erik.”

As Erik takes another lap, he finds Charles standing in front of him, holding a lantern. In the dim light, Charles almost looks like a ghost. Erik assumes he, himself, looks the same.

“We need to rest,” Charles urges. “We’re leaving before morning.”

Erik nods stiffly, his thoughts elsewhere. Rather than comment, rather than follow, he stands still to dig his boots into the uneven floor. 

“I used to run down this corridor,” Erik says. “The breeze from the courtyard was strongest here. I would always get in trouble bumping into visitors and staff...but it was worth it.”

Charles smiles slightly, eyes shining with gentle sincerity. “That sounds wonderful.”

“It was.” Erik refuses to meet his gaze.

“Genosha is not lost, my friend,” Charles assures. “As long as you and I are still here, I know that there is still much to hope for.”

Erik shakes his head. “Nothing but a small fragment of what my people once were. I am responsible for them, especially after I allowed Shaw to—”

“Shaw is a vicious man and you were a _child_ ,” Charles cuts in. “You are not just a shell created to lead, you are not just a weapon created to defend your people, and you are not just the blood of your family.”

“Then enlighten me, Charles. What am I?”

“You’re a person.”

Erik, stunned, finally allows his eyes to meet Charles’. Charles, whose angled brow is furrowed in fury and insistence. 

“Shaw has taken everything from me,” Erik says quietly. “I won’t let him take everything from you, too.”

“He will not take everything. Not from either of us.”

“This is one of the last things I have left,” admits Erik, leaving the obvious hanging in the air. 

“You will have more, one day. I promise,” says Charles.

They are now mere inches apart, transfixed. Unknowing of the future and almost afraid. 

Charles nods, lips curling upward with a familiar clever smile. 

Erik closes the distance between them.

-

Westchester and Genosha’s forces surround what is left of Shaw’s army. Sieged and helpless without the additional support of Frost and Azazel. With the White Queen captured and Azazel distracted further south at Westchester’s borders, the only thing left to do is to defeat Shaw himself.

“Any news from Commander Darkholme?” Erik asks.

“She’s already well on her way to victory on the Westchester front,” says Charles. 

“I’m glad to hear it.”

The two remain hidden from the encampment, lurking behind spiny evergreens. They turn to their people. Signals readied. 

The sun rises red, tearing through the sky like a wound. Bleeding onto pale snow. 

At dawn, the attack begins.

-

Side-by-side, two kings stand on land now reclaimed. From the winter comes the first breaths of spring, as the clouds above unfurl to reveal sunlight for the first time in months. For a brief moment, Erik senses the humid southern winds. He finds himself nostalgic for the island for the first time.

"Look," Charles says, tugging Erik by the arm.

Peeking out of a patch of melting snow, a budding wildflower waves in the breeze. They watch, appreciating the simplicity of it all. Remembering the garden where they first spoke.

"Do we part ways, now?" Erik asks solemnly, breaking the silence. 

"We have kingdoms to rebuild," Charles replies. "There's nothing that says we can't do that together."

Erik turns to him. "And after? We fought a hard battle. But even outside of this war, I would hate to leave your side."

"We don't have to," says Charles, as though it's obvious. He holds out a hand, smiling. "I would like to continue this alliance. Political and personal. Join me?" 

Erik can't help but smile in return, accepting the offer. "Of course."

With their fingers laced together, they walk back to their people.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Comments and kudos are always appreciated!


End file.
